John Holmes - Even Zombie Killers Can Die

I could settle it right here, right now. I’m not the greatest shot in the world, and it was well over 700 meters away, but I thought I could make it. I laid the cross hairs right on the smaller figure’s center torso, let my breath out, and slowly squeezed the trigger.

Eight hundred meters is a long way for anyone to shoot, and I missed. Well, I sort of missed. The larger figure, which I took to be one of her ex-Delta Force goons turned bodyguard, partially hid Morano’s body as I fired, and I forgot to take into account for windage. A strong south wind, unusual for this time of year, caught the round and moved it about eight inches to the left. Enough that, instead of seeing Morano’s slight form crumple to the ground, the big, beefy soldier folded in the middle, probably gut shot. I had been aiming lower because of her shorter stature. When I had settled the scope again from the recoil, both had disappeared into a fold in the ground.

“Dammit!” OK, well, that’s the way shit happens sometimes. I scanned the field for the vehicles that must have brought them there, and in the far distance I saw two 5 ton trucks. I may not be a great shot when it comes to people, but I can hit a truck. I emptied the magazine into the engine compartment of one, then the other. Hot radiator fluid spilled out onto the ground, making a bright white splash in the infrared spectrum. I wished for a tracer round to set them on fire after I had punctured the gas tanks, but they were probably diesel anyway. Bullets never set gasoline on fire, unless you got lucky and a steel jacketed slug struck sparks off some metal. Even then, no huge explosions, just a hot fire. Another Hollywood myth. Either way, Morano might still be alive, but she wasn’t going anywhere.

I turned the scope southward, to the field where the mercenary team had tried to parachute in. I could see a single figure walking toward the remains of the paratroopers, followed by the short / tall team of Red and Hart, pulling security. As I watched, the lone figure, must have been Ziv, fired a short burst into each of the bodies on the ground. Cold bastard, he was, but he was right. We had other things to worry about than someone faking death and sneaking up on us behind.

Lifting the scope higher, I searched for the two that had run away. I saw one floating in the river, unmoving. His heat signature was fading as I watched. This time of the year, the Hudson was still very cold, and he probably had been wounded anyway. The other one was trying to hide behind a tree. I shot him. Such were the wages of being a mercenary, and I had no sympathy for the ones that hired themselves to someone like the Doctor.

As I made to head back down the stairs, the ground to the east rocked with a rhythmic pounding as the 40mm cannon on the Spectre gunship walked its way across the fields, followed at intervals by the big BOOM of the 105mm howitzer. I ran down the stairs, passed Doc and Brit frantically doing CPR on Ahmed, and flipped the radio to the TACAIR frequency.

“Spectre, Spectre, this is Lost Boys, over.”

The copilot of the gunship immediately came back over the radio. I could hear the rumbling of the engines and the hammering of the guns over his headset. “Go ahead, Lost Boys.”

“Spectre, what’s the situation, over?”

“Lost Boys, we are engaging approximately two — four, I say again, two — four undead and receiving small arms fire from a group located about 100 meters from the undead, break”

After a second he came back on “be advised, small arms fire no longer a problem. Will continue to engage target area until heat signatures are gone, over.”

“Roger, Spectre, much appreciate the support. Be advised there may be heat signatures eight hundred meters east of my position. DO NOT, I say again, DO NOT engage. High Value Target. Will attempt capture.”

“Roger, will not engage.”

“Also if there are any heat signatures on the west bank, consider hostile, over.”

“Roger that, Lost boys. We will be on station for approximately ten more mikes. Spectre out.”

I dropped the hand mike and raced upstairs. Brit sat crying in the hallway with Ahmed’s head cradled in her lap, covered in blood, his eyes closed. Doc was stripping off his gloves. He also had blood up his arms, and it was pooled on the floor.

“He’s gone, Nick. The round hit him in the shoulder, penetrated his chest cavity, down to his heart, I suspect. There was nothing I could do. He was dead before we brought him down here.”

I sat down next to Brit and put my arm around her. She was sobbing hysterically.

“Brit.” I squeezed her shoulder. “Brit.” She shook her head. I grabbed her jaw in my hand and turned her face towards me. “Brit, he’s gone. We have work to do. Let’s go.”

She looked down at Ahmed’s peaceful features, all the color drained away from the massive internal bleeding. She made a pillow out of her hoodie and set his head down on it, then leaned down to kiss his forehead, a strand of her red hair brushing across his still face, tears mixing with the blood.

“Morano is out there, probably still with some of her goons, and maybe some Z’s. I wrecked her transportation, so they aren’t going anywhere.” I listened, but the explosions outside had stopped. “Air support is done. We need to get the team together and go after her.”

Doc stood and then lifted Ahmed’s body. “I’ll take care of him. I’m still no good in a fight anyway, with my hands like this. I know what to do with his body.” Even more so than I had, Doc had spent a ton of time in Afghanistan as Special Forces medic, and had fought and lived with the same kind of people Ahmed’s tribe had been. He knew their ways, and I could trust him to show the proper respect. Even more than that, Ahmed had been, with Doc and Jonesy, our original teammate, and it was an obligation he willingly took on.

I took Brits’ hand and led her down the stairs. Halfway down, I had to stop and retighten my leg. As I sat down on the stair and worked the straps, Brit sat down with me. Her tears had stopped, and she put her arm around me.

“Nick, I can’t go out with you. I’ll stay here with Doc.”

“Why not?”

“I’m not risking it.”

“What do you mean?”

“I was going to tell you after the guys had left, but I want you to know now. I’m pregnant.”

I sat there on the stairs, looking at her. Outside, zombies were howling. Blood was leaking down the stairs, one of my best friends’ lifeblood. He lay dead upstairs. Outside, corpses were strewn around our farm. I could hear Ziv and the others coming back into the kitchen. There were hundreds of bullet holes in the house. An evil psychopath was somewhere out in the woods, possibly with heavily armed troops, and corpses animated by a genetically engineered parasite were crawling around. Brit was pregnant. This was the only thing tonight that had thrown me for a loop.

“How?” Well, that was a stupid question. We had talked about it, and I wanted a family, but she had been scared of being pregnant so far away from real medical care. I had told her that it would be up to her.

“Probably when you bent me over the couch a few weeks ago.” She laughed, and then started crying again.

“Oh.” OK, I felt like an idiot. “Britanny Karen O’Neil” I whispered to her, “thank you.” She squeezed my hand, and I got up off the stairs. She sat there, looking at me, the blue in her eyes rimmed with red from crying.